


Drinking Buddies

by Billie_Tyler



Category: Gridlock
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, M/M, Platonic Romance, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billie_Tyler/pseuds/Billie_Tyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You insist you don't have a drinking problem, and you don't. You're not going to lie to yourself and say that you don't want to slink up to your apartment, and drink to forget, make it easier, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinking Buddies

The days that remind you of Aiden are the hardest. Not to say that every stupid little fucking thing doesn't remind you of him, but the things that are so much him, parts of him, scents of a boy long dead, the unmistakable red hair in isolated spots here and there-

That's what kills you.

You insist you don't have a drinking problem, and you don't. You're not going to lie to yourself and say that you don't want to slink up to your apartment, and drink to forget, make it easier. But you pride yourself in the fact that most times you don't give into that. Still, there are days you're doing fine, and those are the worst, especially when they come crashing down. When you're sitting on your couch, Lillian off with her girlfriend, and you've got the place to yourself, you hear the unmistakable chirping of your Roomba, a relic of days long past when things like automated vacuums rang of a future bright and carefree.

And you know the chirps, the little sounds, the ones that say he needs to recharge, the others saying his stuck, but this one's different, more often heard. The sound of it's brushes unable to spin, and you sigh, setting down your drink.  It's nothing too strong.

 (by your standards, anyways.)

But you seek it out eventually, finding it, as you stoop down to flip it over gently, and see the issue. Even the sight of the Roomba somedays is a fucking knife in your chest, you have distinct memories of Aiden bitching about it, to which you would always smirk like the asshole you are, and roll your eyes with some smartass remark to go along with it. But now, there's that shitty fucking piece of what you assume is a thin thread of red, (you're lying to yourself, you know what it is.), and all it's doing is making you wax poetic and sobby all the same. Your mind drifts to the legend of the red thread that ties lovers together even as you gently untangle it, steady fingers built into muscle memory and sheer force of willpower alone, ensuring you pullit out in one piece, almost reverent. 

You tell yourself it's because you want to be gentle with this decades old machine.

Logic says you need to throw it away, but you return to the couch, twirling it around your fingers and your chest fucking aches. Without thinking too heavily, you pickup your phone, and you don't even need to dial, she's right in your speedial. Even if she's downstairs, you ca't stand to make this request in person.

She'll know what and who it's about anyways.Your leader and drinking buddy _(fuck)_ all in one picks up, just the hint of concern in her voice before you speak, hoping you don't sound too pathetic.

"Hey. It's. Uh. It's the asshole who lives upstairs. I was kind of wondering if you wanted to get fucked up tonight." A casual request if it weren't so obvious you're running away from your problems.

But she and you both know that maybe, at least for tonight, you don't have to run away from them alone.


End file.
